Spare Him from the Darkness
by hp1piececraziness
Summary: WARNING DARK PLOT: Gollum regained the Ring just before Frodo and Sam could enter Mordor. Frodo has been captured by the Enemy and driven insane by torment. Although he escapes with the aid of the remaining members of the Fellowship and an elf maiden with a secret dark past, Frodo continues to bear lasting mental scars. But despite all of this, his duty as a Ring-bearer remains.
1. The Torment of Barad-dur

**Disclaimer: **_**The Lord of the Rings**_** © J.R.R. Tolkien. The Lord of the Rings movies © Peter Jackson/New Line Cinema. I own nothing.**

**WARNING FOR THE WHOLE STORY OVERALL (PLEASE READ!): This is a pretty dark fan fiction. It is all T rated, but there is some violence, character death, character torture, battles, creepy stuff, extreme angst etc. Basically, it's all the kind of stuff that gives the movies a PG-13 rating. The plot revolves around a "What-if-this-had-happened" situation. If you have a problem with any of these things, then don't read this!**

**Author's Note: First of, I have not forgotten about my other stories; I am just suffering from writer's block. This is my first Lord of the Rings fan fiction. It's kind of half-movie, half-book verse. The events from the actual Lord of the Rings plot **_**usually**_** go with the book-version, but I'm using the movie-verse Frodo. **_**I don't hate Frodo no matter what I do to him in my stories, so don't get the wrong impression when you read this.**_** There is a central OC, but NOT A MARY-SUE!**

**Reviews are welcomed, but no flames, please. Please understand that this is ANGST!**

**WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: Violence/Torture**

_Chapter 1_

_The Torment of Barad-dûr_

Somehow, Frodo Baggins knew that he was in grave danger as soon as he woke up. He sensed it before he heard the calls of orcs around him or saw where he was. He even knew it before he could even remember the events of the previous day.

He recalled travelling towards the Land of Shadow with Sam Gamgee, shortly after escaping Cirith Ungol. They had been so close to victory, but fate had been cruel.

_Gollum had been following them. He had become even more cautious and swift, if that was possible, and neither Frodo nor Sam had detected him._

_ It had been a cold and wet night, for a storm had just passed by. Frodo had volunteered for the first watch, and Sam had uneasily fallen asleep. The first few minutes had been uneventful, but near the end of Frodo's watch, the Ring-bearer had seen something move in the shrubs nearby._

_ He'd gone closer to investigate. Perhaps it was only an animal of some sort… but of course, few harmless creatures liked to venture so close to Mordor. Frodo had wandered too far._

_ There hadn't been any cry of surprise, or long fight. It all happened very fast. A moment later, Frodo found that he had been struck to the ground and something was on top of him, clawing at his neck. He tried unsuccessfully to push his assailant off. Gollum had begun to gnaw and tug on the chain that the One Ring hung on._

_ For a short while, they struggled on the ground. Then, the chain came loose, and, as quickly as he'd attacked, Gollum ran off with his Precious._

_ Some power had gripped Frodo at that moment. It wasn't only the desire to regain the Ring for the cause of his quest that made him blindly pursue Gollum, heedless of Sam's alarmed calls behind him. _

_ The stronger motive was much more selfish. A strange thought had come to Frodo: He'd been robbed of something that rightfully belonged to him, something more valuable than any other possession._

_ Frodo did not know how long the chase had continued. He'd followed Gollum's triumphant shrieks through the rugged wasteland, without keeping track of exactly where he was going or what he could encounter. The only thing on his mind was the Ring, and his longing to have it back gave him the energy to pursue Gollum deep into the woods, despite his previous exhaustion._

_ He'd been barely aware of his friend now far behind, searching and calling for him._

_ He'd been barely aware of the danger._

_ He'd lost Gollum a while later, and had wandered aimlessly in the vain hope of finding the creature. What Frodo had found was a ring of boulders where a group of orcs had made a little camp. Ill fate indeed!_

_ Of course, it had not taken the orcs long to notice the hobbit's presence. Capture had consisted of a short chase followed by a mess of struggling and kicking, which had ended when Frodo was knocked unconscious by a particularly hard blow to the head._

It all seemed so impossible, so surreal. The idea of such extreme misfortune in such a short amount of time was bitterly comical. Nonetheless it had all happened.

Questions raced through Frodo's mind. Where was Sam? Had he been caught also? Was he there, with Frodo or was Sam still trying vainly to find his companion?

Well, if Sam had escaped capture, Frodo hoped that his friend had decided against looking for him. If there was a time when strict loyalty would lead to something awful, this was it. But it wasn't the time to worry about that; he didn't even know what exactly what type of situation _he_ was in.

He felt something cold and thin wound around his legs and arms. He opened his eyes wearily and saw that there were little wires wrapped around him. They were coiled around in little rings up and down each limb, about an inch or so apart. Very odd…

Besides that, Frodo was lying on what seemed to be a flat, elevated board, and was nearly naked. He tried to get up, but found that, strangely enough, the seemingly delicate wires acted like ropes, binding him to the board. He craned his neck around to look at his surroundings.

He was in a torch-lit room with stone walls and a high ceiling. There was a black statue in the corner of some hideous thing whose shape could not be clearly perceived. Next to Frodo were what appeared to be the tops of levers, and all about him, there were orcs.

Some were chattering to each other, while others had busied themselves with the levers. One glanced at Frodo and called to another orc, "Oi! He's awake!"

Frodo struggled helplessly against the wires, while a burly orc came forward and leered down at him.

"Alright," growled the orc. "The Dark Lord wants answers, and trust me, we _will _get our answers. It only depends on if you tell us what we want now or if we have to make you scream first."

He turned and called, "Do you have everything ready, boys?"

A smaller orc answered, "Yes, Gorghâsh. You can start."

Gorghâsh turned back to Frodo. "First, let's get a few things straight," growled the orc. "And then, we'll see whether it's worth keeping you alive. You were found crawling around the borders of our land. What brought you there?"

There was a pause while Frodo searched for a reasonable lie. Unfortunately, there weren't many reasons that a hobbit would go wondering around the edges of Mordor. Without thinking, he uttered the first thing that came to mind:

"Lost," he said. "I... I lost my way."

It was a rather pathetic fib, and the hesitation in Frodo's voice didn't make it any more convincing. Gorghâsh narrowed his beady eyes and nodded at another orc. Frodo felt the wires around him get tighter, until they pierced his skin. He whimpered a little.

"Do you take me for a fool, you rat?" said Gorghâsh. "I have heard about your miserable kind from others. Your kind don't wander far from your home in the west willingly, unless you have a purpose to serve elsewhere. What was it this time?"

As the orc spoke, the wires dug deeper into Frodo until they were cutting through flesh and into veins. He was barely paying attention to the questions and expletives being thrown at him. All he really heard was his own tortured screams.

Finally, the wires loosened, leaving deep lacerations in their place. The shrieks were reduced to little sobs. The world was blurred by tears that Frodo was unable to subdue and he was only fully brought back to it when someone shook him roughly. There was a different orc stooped over him with a crooked-edged dagger.

"You have some importance in this war, don't you?" it hissed. "Some precious secrets that you've been told to keep? Yes, we've had our suspicions ever since we found you. Just reveal a few things or I'll slice you up even more."

The knife was moving closer. Frodo lay still, trying to hide his terror. He thought of the rest of the broken Fellowship; he remembered Aragorn, his cousins, Sam… surely they wouldn't give in so easily to the Enemy. Frodo had to do the same. He winced when he felt the blade pierce his shoulder.

The wires had shifted a little and were now tightening again. Frodo shut his eyes and repeated, silently to himself, "There's still hope as long as you keep quiet. Don't say a word. Don't tell them anything." He tried not to scream for he didn't know exactly what he would cry out if he did. The board beneath him was growing hot; burning, burning.

Frodo wasn't sure quite how long the agony continued. After a while,the only clear thought in his mind was of the stinging pain and the longing for it to end. Far off like an echo, Frodo heard someone growl, "He's being stubborn. He's hiding something."

"Bring him to The Eye," said a new, cold voice. It wasn't gruff enough to belong to an orc. Frodo sensed that it was one of the men from the South who he'd seen marching towards to Black Gate at a time that seemed lost now.

"The Eye?" said the first speaker. "Are you sure that…"

"The Halfling wouldn't try so adamantly to conceal any insignificant matter," said the second. "He could hold an advantage for us, and, although I know how amusing you find this process, we don't have time to wait here for him to crack. He will not be able to withstand the power of the Dark Lord. Bring the Halfling to The Eye and he shall break quickly."

There was a reluctant sigh followed by a hoarse call of, "Alright. We're taking this scum to The Master."

The wires loosened once more and Frodo was pulled roughly into a standing position, only to collapse on his knees. Someone kicked him, but he did not rise, for he was too weak and in too much pain to do so.

Even if this wasn't the case, he wouldn't have gone anywhere willingly, not after what he had just heard. The mere feeling that the Eye of Sauron was looking upon him had been horrible even in lands far away from Mordor. Frodo had no desire to stand directly in its presence. Who knew what he would reveal under its power?

"Please," he thought to himself. "Let them be satisfied with what they're doing now. Let them change their minds."

But he knew how hopeless this was. The choking feeling of dread gripping him grew rapidly as he was dragged out of the dim chamber, down a long, dark flight of steps, leaving a trail of dark red drops behind him.

Frodo knew where he was now: Barad-dûr, the dreadful fortress whose name was uttered with a grim or quavering voice in distant lands, for it meant misery and terror. None could infiltrate the stronghold of the Dark Lord.

The sickening feeling that there would be no salvation coming or chance of escape hit Frodo. His captors could do whatever they wished to him, and no help would come. He knew that they would kill him in the end, once they got bored.

A voice echoed in his head, "This task was appointed to you, Frodo of the Shire. If you do not find a way, no one will." The burdening sensation of failure overcame him. Gollum couldn't hide the Ring forever. Sauron would regain it. The shadow would spread and the Shire and all other places once fair and peaceful would be stained with the blood of the Free People.

Frodo tried to suppress these thoughts for regardless of how things would end, he could not afford to fall into any deep state of distress and let something slip out about the Fellowship or exactly who had the Ring now. He could buy some time perhaps, although he didn't see what real help this could provide; it was all he felt he could do now…

But as he ascended the stairs further, a sense of terrible might filled the passage and the hope of staying strong against it dwindled.


	2. Guilt and Darkness

**Author's Note: My apology if some of the names of OCs sound strange. They are taken from roots from Black Speech, Quenya and Sindarin, and are inspired by other less well-known names that Tolkien created.**

**Chapter Warning: Violence/Mental Torture/Slightly Scary Stuff**

_Chapter 2_

_Guilt and Darkness_

It was nearly impossible to see now, and Frodo could not comprehend how his captors were able to carry on without tiring. Although they kept a firm grip on him, Frodo was left to walk on his own now and couldn't help but stumble over the uneven stone steps.

The orcs with him grumbled about this and occasionally, the one behind would use his whip if he felt Frodo was moving too slowly. Somehow, it never missed its mark. Perhaps these creatures had lived in the gloom so long that they had sharp senses even in the darkness.

At last, Frodo sensed that they were reaching the end of their climb. There was a bright light up ahead, but it was not at all inviting. Despite his exhaustion, there was something about it that made him want to flee back down the stairs again. Without thinking, he froze, shaking from fear of an unseen terror.

Someone shouted at him from behind and the lash of the whip followed, but instead of moving, he collapsed, crouching on the edge of a step. The fright had worsened. Something malevolent was approaching at a great speed. There was a dreadful long screech and Frodo cringed, covering his ears. He knew that noise too well; a Nazgûl was flying overhead.

After what seemed like an eternity, it became more distant, and slowly, that threat was gone, but there was still one ahead. Frodo had been snatched up again and was being hauled towards the ominous light. It was only a few steps away.

Soon, the stairs had ended and he found himself surrounded by a ghastly light. He sensed that he was very high up and close to a fell power. He was pushed to the ground, and the orc who had been carrying him spoke.

"The Halfling, my Lord," he hissed in a tone of frightened respect. "We have brought him to you, for he holds valuable secrets and has resisted our methods in the chambers below."

With that, the orc slunk back into the darkness of the staircase, watching from the top step. Trembling, Frodo slowly raised his head and immediately shrunk back in trepidation for high above, boring into him with nightmarish intensity and might was a great, flaming eye: The Eye of Sauron.

Despite how dreadful a thing it was, it held Frodo's gaze. It was like being trapped in a state of unreal horror. An awful voice spoke in his head, and he felt weak, unable to resist its command: "_Tell me your purpose"_.

Some great evil seemed to be searching through him, and it felt as though it was tearing him to shreds in the process. Frodo had collapsed, writhing and convulsing. He was using all his will to fight back his thoughts about the Ring and his role as a Ring-bearer, but that was exactly what Sauron was looking for, and inevitably such information slipped out.

The hobbit curled up on the floor, whimpering softly. The voice was speaking to him again, cruel and harsh with growing rage, "_You supposed that a useless Halfling could possibly defeat the Dark Lord? Fool!"_

A new pain surged through Frodo as though he was being skinned alive. Above his own shrieks he heard the voice ask him "_Who helped you? Who did you journey with?_"

The burning, stinging agony worsened rapidly and Frodo felt his will to hide the truth drain from him rapidly. All logic and thoughts of consequences or duties were pushed from his mind. A sense of utter despair and desperation had seized him. The secrets of his mission were poured out in a mindless mess of weeping and anguished screams:

"No! Not alone… eight… a Company of nine… seeking to destroy it… began months ago to destroy it… from Rivendell… to Gondor… or Mordor… only six left… four hobbits… an elf… a dwarf… two men… one an heir… a descendent of kings…Strider… Aragorn!"

With that, Frodo shuddered and fell silent, sprawled on the floor. The dark power was slowly loosening its grip; awareness of the situation was returning and when it did, the realization of what had just spilled out was crushing.

Sauron knew it all now. He knew of the Fellowship, the plan to destroy the Ring and the living heir of Isildur, and it was all because the Ring-bearer had given in.

"You should have at least given up a better fight," Frodo thought to himself bitterly. "You could have at least attempted to withstand it longer. Why were you so weak? They would have endured it for you. Gandalf, Legolas, Aragorn…"

The mere thought of Aragorn exacerbated the already heavy feeling of guilt. He had healed the Ring-bearer's injuries and would have led him into Mordor if the need had come. What had Frodo done in return? He had given away this companion's name and identity to the Enemy, and along with it, he had likely throw away the hope of the remaining Company.

Even if he, by some inexplicable miracle, escaped Barad-dûr and, by another obscure wonder, met the Fellowship again, he doubted that he could ever face them or be forgiven. How would he ever be able to apologize, to explain that he had tried and lost the battle? It would be impossible. There were some things that could scar even the strongest bonds of friendship.

Someone had lifted him up, and once again, they descended the long, gloomy stairway. A little farther down, Frodo heard a new voice speaking in his head, not terrifying or malevolent like the earlier one, but certainly not comforting either. It sounded accusing and hurt. It slipped in and out of his thoughts, and Frodo could not decide whether or not it was real.

After what felt like another hour, pure darkness faded into dim lighting, and Frodo was thrown onto the floor. One of the orcs bent down and began the tie rough ropes around his arms. Frodo no longer had the energy to struggle against this.

When this was done, the ropes were uncomfortably tight, but he knew that that was barely anything compared to what he would soon be put through. Orcs never left their quarry untouched until the moment they slaughtered it.

Frodo felt the expected sting of the whip across his chest. Wincing, he curled up and hid his face. A series of lashes followed in quick secession, and the orcs howled with amusement. Frodo shut his eyes and told himself not to cry, for he would not add to his tormentor's sadistic pleasure, but eventually, the inevitable tears of pain came. He curled up more to hide them. He caught a glimpse of another saw-edged dagger and braced himself.

"Stop that for just a moment," came an authoritative voice. "I have instructions."

It was the same person whom Frodo had heard ask the orcs for him to be sent to the Eye. Slowly, he lifted his head a little to see a man, clothed in a deep red. He was gaunt and had eyes that were piercing and dark like a shadow. They reminded Frodo of the glare of some iniquitous beast.

"The Dark Lord requests that you keep the Halfling alive for now," said the man. His voice was a rasping growl.

"What for?" said one of the orcs in dismay.

"There is a reasonable amount of advantage that comes with keeping the former Ring-bearer here," continued the man. "Such significant things do not go unnoticed. The way I believe things are is that as long as our enemies know that the key to their chance of victory in this war is being held here, they will eventually risk invading Mordor. Once this happens, it will be much easier to slaughter many of them than if we sent a portion of our armies to their strongholds. Hope makes even the wisest act like fools."

The orcs grumbled in dismay, but did not protest.

"Furthermore," added the man, glancing at Frodo with an unpleasant smile. "I'm sure that the Halfling knows more than he's told us so far. Perhaps we just don't know what questions to ask at the moment. To assure that he lives to the time when we _do_ know what to ask, I've been sent to heal some of the damage you did earlier. I'm not doing anything major, just something to stop the bleeding."

"Don't you go blaming us for any 'damage' we did on your orders, Hyarmur," growled one of the orcs. "It's not like you're not going to do any harm to the little maggot."

Hyarmur chuckled a little. "It's true that I may indulge myself in a bit of fun later, but nothing fatal. I'll guard him a bit for today. Tomorrow, you can take over and make him squeal as much as you want, as long as you don't kill him, but don't be too disappointed. There is still one more thing I'd like you to do right now. Although I doubt that the Halfling would be able to escape and go far if he had the chance, we can certainly avoid some complications if we make sure that he can't run at all, if you understand me."

Frodo heard shuffling, and saw a figure come forward. It was Gorghâsh carrying something that appeared to be very heavy. He lifted the object up with great strength and Frodo felt a crushing weight fall on his left leg. Several similar blows came after and he thought he heard a few cracks. A similar process was soon carried out on his right leg. He was screaming and squirming, but the orc holding him down was much stronger.

In the corner, Frodo saw Hyarmur watching with a cold, bored expression. After a few minutes, the man held up his hand and said, "I believe that shall do."

He sauntered over to Frodo and tested if he could stand on his own. Immediately, Frodo fell over his broken, throbbing legs with a yelp.

"Good," Hyarmur said to the orcs. "You may go now if you wish."

He bent over Frodo and took out a container of some thick, black liquid, which he applied roughly to the hobbit's bleeding wounds. It stung terribly and Frodo whimpered.

"Shut up," snapped Hyarmur. Frodo obeyed. He sensed that he had not yet seen how dangerous Hyarmur was entirely, but there was a definite air of hostility and ruthlessness about him.

The strange murmur that Frodo had heard on the stairway was creeping back now, growing louder and louder. He strained to make out the words it was saying and where it was coming from. There was something sickeningly familiar about it that he could not yet decipher. He was only brought back to reality when Hyarmur picked him up.

He walked a few feet before opening a cell door and dropping Frodo inside as if he were tossing away something of small value. The barred door was slammed shut with a clang that echoed through the lonely room. Instinctively, Frodo crawled to the corner, as quickly as his maimed legs could allow him, and lay there, cringing like an abused animal.

"Alright," said Hyarmur. "I don't want to hear any incessant whining or sobbing from you. You stay quiet or I'll come in there and give you a real reason to cry. Is that understood?"

Frodo gave a terrified nod and turned away against the wall. The mystic voice was returning for the third time. This time, it was clear. It uttered a single word to him:

"Explain."

Frodo looked around for the source of the voice. It seemed to be coming from outside his cell.

"Explain to us this betrayal," it said again.

Turning his gaze to the side a little, Frodo saw someone looking through the bars. He started in disbelief and horror for there stood Aragorn, son of Arathorn, but there was something strange about him.

It was the same face Frodo had left at Amon Hen to a certain extent, but now it was etched with deep sorrow. And the eyes! They were the most noticeable difference. No longer did they hold any amicable or concerned gleam. They were filled with icy, malicious disgust. When Aragorn spoke, his manner of speech was also much changed from what Frodo remembered.

"You left us, Frodo," he said. "You snuck off only to get yourself captured by the Enemy, and told him the crucial secrets. Explain."

Frodo found himself choking back tears.

"He… he hurt me terribly," he stammered. "He took hold of me, and I… I couldn't help but give in and –"

"So you sold us, because you simply could not endure the pain?" said Aragorn in a tone of upmost repulsion that Frodo had never heard before, or had ever imagined coming from his companion. "The Enemy is upon all of us now."

"Please understand," cried Frodo. "That's not how it was… not exactly at least…. Please forgive me!"

"It seems that you do not value aid and protection from others," Aragorn continued, ignoring Frodo. "So, we have decided you don't need our assistance anymore."

"No!" Frodo found himself begging. "Please, don't leave me here. Don't abandon me…"

"Did you not abandon the Company?" snapped Aragorn. "Did you not abandon the friend who followed you through your journey towards Mordor, the friend you ran away from in the night, chasing the Ring? You left him on the edge of the Black Land, alone. You left him to die."

Awful image of what would become of Sam flashed through Frodo's head. He seemed to hear his friend calling, "Mr. Frodo!" from a distance, followed by screaming and the delighted shrieks of orcs. He stared at Aragorn, who gave him one last uncaring look. Then, the Ranger seemed to fade into the shadows. Frodo was yelling, pleading over and over: "Don't leave me to the Enemy! Please, please forgive me!"

He didn't realize that he was speaking aloud and only stopped when he felt someone seize him and hit him hard across the face a few times.

"Who're you yapping for?" shouted Hyarmur. "There's no one there! Stop it!"

With that, he let go of Frodo, and left after giving a final hard kick exited the cell and shut the door again with an angry bang. Frodo retreated back to his corner and stared at where he had seen, or thought he had seen, Aragorn. There was nothing there now, but the earlier vision had been as clear to him as Hyarmur slouching against a nearby wall.

With a sigh, Frodo lay down on the hard, stone floor, but sleep was slow to come. Demonic faces seemed to be drifting around outside of his cell, each with a vague resemblance of someone from the Fellowship. Misty hands groped at the bars enclosing him. Frodo found it nearly impossible to determine their reality.

Exhaustion eventually overcame him, and when he awoke from a night troubled with similar apparitions, the line between truth and fantasy had nearly dissolved completely, like a memory forgotten after years of hardship.


	3. The Maiden of the Mornedhil

**Author's Note: Hello, people. First of all, thank you to all of my reviewers. Reviews are always greatly appreciated unless they are flames. Secondly, I would like to note something about this chapter. My Elvish OC will be introduced in this chapter. I actually got the idea for this character and her involvement in this story shortly after I became a Lord of the Rings fan. I am aware of the fact that there are many other Elvish OCs on , however, I can tell you that this is not the typical OC elf****. I did base her name on my name translated into Elvish and I know that it may be spelled similarly to Elrond's wife's name although the pronunciation is different. I did not intend for this to happen, it just turned out that way.**** (I have a friend who's name translated into Elvish is Galädriel so it's basically coincidence.)**

**I used a Sindarin dictionary for some of the phrases, although I'm not sure whether it translates into a dialect of Sindarin like some do.**

**Sorry if this chapter kind of sucks.**

**Chapter Warning: Violence (I'm not going to put warnings about angst since it's basically expected)**

_Chapter 3_

_The Maiden of the Mornedhil_

The essence of time was hardly present in the "Pits" of Barad-dûr. Sunlight did not reach them, as they were halfway underground. Even if this was not the case, the sun did not shine brightly in Mordor; it was merely a blazing orb in the sky, bringing heat and discomfort. So, the beginning and end of a new day was barely felt in this dungeon.

The only way Frodo had been able to estimate how long he had been imprisoned was by watching who was guarding his cell. This tended to alternate between various orcs, Hyarmur, and a few other men in the service of Sauron. All of them were equally callous. Frodo knew well that the term "guarding" was merely used as an excuse for them to reap more joy from hurting him; there was no one else in the Pits to torment, so it was all focused on Frodo. Eventually, he stopped keeping track of time entirely, for there seemed to be no point in doing so anymore.

Now, although he wasn't aware of it, was the twentieth day of imprisonment. Frodo was pressed up against the back corner of his cell. It was the hardest place for the guards to reach him and some of the men often decided that the thrill of seeing him squirm in pain was not worth struggling to drag him out. So, that small corner in the shadows had come to hold the miniscule sense of security that Barad-dûr could possibly contain.

The orcs who had been sent to monitor Frodo had satisfied their cruelty enough for the next hour. They had used up the methods of inflicting pain that had been deemed "not fatal" by their superiors, and were now slumped outside, talking quietly in forms of the Black Speech amongst themselves. This was a relief. Frodo had already gotten a number of new bruises from them earlier that day.

He felt, strangely enough, freezing (this was, of course, cynically ironic as he was in the "Land of Fire and Shadow"). The fact that he barely had any clothes or anything to keep him warm did not help at all. His muscles were sore from the chill running throughout him. It had started soon after his arrival at the Dark Tower and grew more severe with every day, weakening him even more.

There was the shuffling of feet outside and Frodo knew that new guards had come. The door creaked open and he flinched at the sound. A young man came over and snatched Frodo off the ground, partially by the hair, but nearly dropped him a moment later. To the hobbit's surprise, the guard shook his head and hurried off. The door closed behind him.

This, however did not ease Frodo's fear at all. He knew that the guard would return, perhaps with a new method of torture. Barad-dûr, after all, contained a myriad of ways to make its captives suffer and he doubted that he had seen half of them. He waited until he heard voices coming down the stairway.

"What's the matter?" came the distinct, hoarse voice of Hyarmur.

"I think the Halfling's ill," answered another man. "Feels like he's got a burning fever. Thought I ought to ask you, saying that you're always dealing with these sort of things."

The voices grew closer and the cell door was flung open once more. Frodo heard heavy breathing as someone knelt down next to him and pressed their hand against his forehead. After further examination, Hyarmur stood up and turned to the other man.

"It appears that you were right," he growled. "He's probably got some nasty diseases. Just give him a dose of something…"

"Waste of medicine," muttered the other guard. "I still don't see why he's worth keeping alive. He's useless, really. Useless and troublesome! We haven't gotten anything else out of him lately, but we still have to keep him fed and healthy."

That last statement was almost humorous in its inaccuracy. Every day, one of the guards would bring Frodo water, but they gave him no food. Hunger was not unfamiliar, especially not after the trek to Mordor, but he had never been this famished. The hunger pains mixed with the aching from his legs and open wounds were excruciating, but he had learned that at times it was better to starve for another day than to try to take food from the guards.

(This had come about on his eighth day at Barad-dûr, when a pair of men had come to watch him. Frodo supposed that they had gotten bored and of course, the best form of entertainment had been to offer him a morsel of food and kick him hard below the ribs when he, against better judgment, came out to take it. He had sworn to himself that he would not fall for that foolish trick again.

The same lesson had been dealt out in another way a few days later. This time, Hyarmur had been guarding Frodo, and had dropped a burnt piece of bread next to the prison door. It had barely been a mouthful and it was within reach, even with bound hands. Frodo had assumed that it was unwanted. That much had been true, but that hadn't prevented him from getting a swollen eye when he tried to grab it.)

"Are you contradicting the Dark Lord's orders?" said Hyarmur; there was a definite change of tone and volume in his voice. "If the Dark Lord wants him kept alive, that's what we aim for!"

"Are you sure we shouldn't fetch her instead?" asked the other guard.

"Who?" said Hyarmur.

"I believe you know who I'm talking about," was the reply. "Don't act as though you don't. She knows methods that could work very well in this situation."

"No!" Hyarmur shouted. "We cannot trust her with the Halfling. Pity will get the better of her. All we need to do is get his fever to go down, then it'll be like it never happened. She doesn't need to get involved in this two. Hasn't she already gotten unnecessarily involved in enough things here? Now, go get that medicine!"

The other man left and returned a short while later with a small bottle of a murky liquid. Hyarmur snatched it from him and sat down next to Frodo, who immediately recoiled when the bottle was opened; the odor of its contents was utterly repugnant.

"Take it, rat," said Hyarmur. "Stop being difficult!"

Frodo felt hands grope at his face in the darkness and pinch his nose so that he couldn't breathe. The foul medicine (if that was what it really was) was forced down the moment he gasped for air. It seemed to scald his throat and made him want to gag, but he was forced to swallow. The first thought that came to mind was, "I hope it wasn't poison", for the guard who had brought it certainly believed Frodo deserved to die.

The men had now left and were going back upstairs. Shivering, Frodo inched back against the wall. He closed his eyes and began to wonder what had made Hyarmur and the other men who were servants of Sauron so malicious. Surely they had not always been iniquitous. Brutality was intrinsic for some of the wicked creatures of the world, like orcs, but not to men…

But Frodo did not ponder the subject further. There wasn't much point in ruminating these matters anymore. What did any of this matter when there was no future outside of this nightmare? He dozed off while he still had the chance to rest; a new guard would be coming soon.

Frodo dreamt of a meadow by a small forest far away. There was a little creek that created a very placid sort of music when its trickling mixed with the bird's chirping. Apart from this, he heard voices calling to each other. There were two hobbit children running around, laughing about an imaginary adventure.

"Now that we have to go to Rivendell," said one. "And await further instruction from…"

"Where?" asked another, who appeared to be a little younger.

"It's an elf-city and it's ruled by Lord Elrond," answered the first. "Bilbo told me."

"How does he know?" asked the second.

"He went there before," said the older. "He travelled there and many other places on an adventure once. There were dwarves and elves and trolls… he told me a story about the trolls fairly recently, Merry. There were three…"

The little hobbit went off into a tale that was rather familiar to Frodo. As a matter of fact the whole dream was _very_ familiar, like a_ memory_. Perhaps that was what it was. He could tell that one of the hobbits was indeed his younger self. The other, he felt like he _should_ remember; he _knew_ that this person had played a role somewhere in the lost past.

There was also something about the meadow and the woods. Although, he could not recall a name for this haven, he _knew_ somehow that it was real. He had been there before, but the memories of its joy had been washed away by the present anguish of life. It was all a riddle that he was unable to discern.

A few hours later, he would awake to distant shouts and the shriek of a Nazgûl overhead, and the fear would replace any joy from his subconscious fantasy. His heart would be filled once again with the sinking feeling that even if that peaceful place in his dreams did exist, it was lost now. If he had been there once, he would not live to return to it.

Despite daily doses of medicine, the disease continued to rapidly drain Frodo's strength in the week that followed. The guards would still come of course, but he could no longer show even the slightest bit of resistance. He could do nothing but wince and shrink back when they hit him.

He was given extremely meager amounts of food perhaps every other day. Hyarmur hadn't made an effort to order the other men to give any more, for he did not believe that the illness was caused by lack of nourishment. Frodo wasn't sure what would kill him first: sickness or starvation.

Yes, he had unwillingly accepted the fact that he would soon be dead. Many people would not find this a horrid fate at all if put under the same circumstances; they would see death as the only form of freedom. Frodo certainly did not want to remain at Barad-dûr any longer, but he did not wish for death. He still wanted to cling on to the quixotic hope of being rescued.

He had been there for twenty five days, precisely). Hyarmur was growing increasingly frustrated with some matters of war concerning Gondor. This was of course was made worse by the fact that all of his methods of healing had not cured Frodo's illness at all. For Frodo, Hyarmur's rage meant extra beatings. It was an even more miserable morning due to this.

Frodo was trying to ignore the sore bruises and get a bit more sleep. He had retreated back to his corner. Hyarmur had satisfied his anger a little and was leaning against the wall outside of the cell when he suddenly got up. He went to the entrance to the stairway, and yelled, "What are you here for?"

"To heal," came a voice Frodo had never heard.

"Who told you that you were needed here?" barked Hyarmur.

"I was ordered to come here by the only one I do take orders from here," was the answer. "You have no power to tell me otherwise."

Frodo lifted his head a little and squinted to see a slim, tall figure come down the steps. It stood next to Hyarmur.

"You can leave now," came the figure's voice and Frodo could tell that this person was female. "I do work better when I am alone with the one I must cure."

Hyarmur paused before saying, "I have been charged with keeping and monitoring the prisoners we have here. You cannot just tell me to leave."

"You cannot deny authority merely because you disagree with it," was the reply, still calm but threatening at the same time.

There was a long sigh. Then, Hyarmur said, "Tell me what you plan to do."

"That is not of your concern," said the other person. "But to assure you that I do not do anything that I have not been given power to do, here is my simple task: Cure the Halfling and perhaps give him a bit of food, perhaps for the next few days. I know what you fear, but you do not need to worry. I have not been given permission to remove your marks of sadism, nor have I been given permission to free him or fully heal his injuries in any way. I was also instructed not to touch the broken limbs. If that is enough of reassurance for you, it would be rather helpful if you would go."

Hyarmur hesitated, contemplating whether to argue further, but decided against it and then made his way up the staircase, slowly and reluctantly, muttering curses under his breath. The tall figure sighed and turned to the cell. Frodo heard a creak followed by light and swift footsteps. He looked up at who he assumed was a new tormentor. For a moment he did not believe what he saw, as it was now so hard to distinguish what to believe, but he soon decided that this was not another hallucination sparked by the madness of a tortured mind.

Standing in the darkness, there was a female elf. She was wearing a black cloak and had long braids of dark hair. Her face was like that of all elves, untouched by physical aging, but etched with the marks of many years of thought. Slung around her arm was what appeared to be an arrow-sheath.

At first, a sudden relief came over Frodo, but it faded quickly when he remembered that he could not expect mercy from anyone in this horrid place. The men who plagued him every morning did not look particularly malevolent, but they were still monsters, weren't they? There was no reason that an elf could not decide to be cruel towards him. Anyone who could serve the Dark Lord would not be above harming a defenseless, sick hobbit. Anyone who could serve the Dark Lord was someone to be afraid of.

Keeping this in mind, Frodo turned away from the elf, and awaited whatever pain would soon come. Why couldn't they just leave him to die? He didn't think he could possibly tolerate much more of it without losing the last, tiny remains of sanity he still possessed. As distress engulfed him once more, and the tears of sorrow began to slip down his face again, four words slipped out in a pathetic, pleading whisper:

"Please, don't hurt me."

Frodo didn't know what good he had expected that to do, but he hadn't been thinking when he spoke. If it had been another guard, he probably would have been kicked for talking. He cringed and whimpered a little, anticipating a blow, but the elf did nothing of the sort. She kneeled down next to him and said, "Hush, I don't come here to harm you, nor will I ever do so."

She rested a hand on Frodo's arm. He flinched at the touch, but then relaxed a little after realizing its unfamiliar gentleness. Nonetheless, he was still weary of this elf who was now muttering phrases in her own tongue. Finally, when she felt that Frodo had calmed down a little, she asked, "Tell, me your name, child."

"Frodo Baggins," Frodo said in a nearly inaudible murmur.

The elf nodded and said, "You ought to know what to call me. I am Célebriän, descendent of the elves of Nargothrond. That is my true name, although I have obtained many others throughout the years. 'Dark Elf' they called me. 'The Maiden of the Mornedhil.' Not entirely untrue, but not true in the way they think it is."

Célebriän stopped and muttered something to herself, as if she was contemplating events of the past. She dropped her arrow-sheath onto the floor, but there were no arrows in it. Instead, it appeared to function as a bag. The elf drew out two small containers, one with a clear liquid and one with a white powder.

While she was mixing these things together, Frodo smelled the mouth-watering scent of warm bread emanating from the bottom of the arrow-sheath. He was reminded of how famished he was. Célebriän poured the substance she'd made into a little cup and held it to his mouth.

"Drink this," she said. "It will help you. Then, you may have something to eat. To think those fools are surprised to find that you are ill when they've starved you half to death like this!"

Frodo drank this new medicine without a struggle. It tasted very bitter, but not half as bad as what the guards had used. His previous decision to not give into trust had faded away rapidly for one simple reason: He was desperate for comfort. He couldn't stand that feeling of being so unwanted and uncared for. He didn't want to die like that.

Célebriän was speaking to him tenderly, cradling his head like you would a small child. A few weeks ago, Frodo wouldn't have allowed this. He wouldn't have tolerated being coddled as though he wasn't even a tween yet. (Elves indeed often considered those of the mortal races youngsters, a habit that resulted from a myriad of years of life throughout the ages.) But now, the suffering of Barad-dûr and the weeks of being treated like a worthless animal had washed away all dignity and pride. He was grateful for _any _kindness here.

"I'm sorry, but I cannot do very much for your injuries," Célebriän whispered. "I am here for… very specific duties, one might say."

She reached into the arrow-sheath and took out a piece of bread, which Frodo eyed longingly. The elf tore off a piece and gave it to him. As simple as this food was, it was absolutely delicious to Frodo. The last "meal" he'd been given had been nearly two days ago, and had consisted of a bit of stale crust.

"Eat," Célebriän said. "But eat slowly or you will make yourself sick. I'll give you more later."

Frodo nodded and muttered, hoarsely, "Thank you."

Célebriän smiled at first, but then shook her head and said, "You wouldn't be thanking me if you knew my past. There are indeed plenty of regrettable things in that story, but I am indeed trying to redeem myself…"

She paused and listened, for far away she could hear the sound of orcs growling as they set off to new posts. Frodo only heard this when the orcs got closer to the walls of Barad-dûr. Memories of their malice flooded back to him, making him shudder. Célebriän murmured something that Frodo could not understand before turning back to him.

"You need not be afraid for now," she said. "I may not always be able to be here even though I'll come as much as I can, but when I am with you, they shall not bring further harm to you. That, I can promise you. Things are going to be different this time."

Frodo didn't quite understand her last sentence, but it seemed that Célebriän had been talking to herself again. She stayed with him for the rest of the day, during the end of which, he nodded off. He didn't feel all that much safer. No words of reassurance could ever make him feel truly safe in this cursed place, but for the first time in weeks, he did not feel utterly alone and that was a blessing.


	4. Célebriän's Promise

**Author's Note: I'm sorry if this took a little longer than other updates. This is my longest chapter so far. I'd like to thank the people who have reviewed/followed/added this story to their favorites. Reviews are always encouraging (except for flames of course). There's more Frodo-torture-scenes in this chapter, as well as a lot of "internal conflict" and that sort of stuff. **

**Next chapter will most likely be catching up with some of the other characters (Aragorn, Legolas, the other hobbits etc.) although I'll get back to Frodo's suffering pretty quickly. If you have any questions about this you can ask me in a review.**

**The flow of this chapter might be a bit off, but I'll try to make future chapters better, so stay with me! **

**Chapter Warning: Torture/Violence.**

_Chapter 4_

_Célebriän's Promise_

Frodo was deep in sleep. Occasionally his breathing would grow frantic and his peaceful countenance would become fraught with apprehension. A few times, he actually cried out, but Célebriän did not interfere. She had decided that it was better to let him rest. Who knew when he would be able to again once those Haradrim and orcs returned? Frodo would always drift out of his nightmare and return to a placid, dreamless slumber anyway.

Célebriän sensed that it was nearly midnight, but she was not tired. She kept herself wide awake with thoughts about the present and the events over the ages that had led to it.

"So, this is the Ring-bearer," she thought to herself. "Poor, innocent thing! I doubt that he had ever been touched by the slightest pain of a war like this before they sent him on his quest, alone…"

But she corrected herself immediately. He hadn't been alone, not the whole time at least. There had been a company of eight other travelers. That much was known throughout the Dark Tower. Célebriän wondered about their fate. If they were still alive, were they aware of what had happened to their Ring-bearer? Maybe, they just assumed Frodo to be dead and were devising a new plan, but if this was not the case, if they knew, how were they going to respond?

The best tactic would be to find the Ring and a new Ring-bearer. Yes, it was a depressing matter that the little hobbit who had been sent first to destroy the Ring had perished, but he was a small sacrifice if the goal was reached in the end. Frodo had always been a sacrifice, hadn't he? No one could have expected him to come back alive once the deed was done.

Célebriän tried to tell herself that this was what was necessary. Logic would always prevail over morals, would it not? Yet how could she possibly say that it was right to abandon Frodo in Barad-dûr, to leave him to further torture and death? Yes, that was it. Such things weren't fair or just, and apart from all morals, they were not meant to happen if the Free People were to win this war. Somehow, Célebriän felt in her heart that Frodo's role as a Ring-bearer was not over.

Hyarmur was calling for her from upstairs. Oh well, it was better to answer him now rather than have him go on yelling. He was in enough of a bad mood as it was, and Frodo paid for it. Sighing, Célebriän stood up to leave.

"I'll be right back, Frodo," she muttered.

As the door closed with a screech, she glanced at the small, shivering figure, emaciated and terribly abused. Mixed with the sense of pity for the hobbit and the hatred towards those he had suffered at the hands of, she felt an odd bit of culpability. Once again, Célebriän found that she was arguing with herself over the same old debate that she could not bring herself to ever discuss aloud.

She had been and still was in the service of Sauron, but this hadn't come to be due to her own greed or wickedness… no, she hadn't had any other option when she made her choice. It had been purely out of love and desperation had it not? What else could she have been expected to do? Nonetheless, she was working with the Enemy… she therefore held some responsibility for any pain Frodo underwent...

No! She would not think like that! This could all be pushed to the back of her mind, forgotten, denied…

But for how long? Memories always emerged in a matter of time, especially those that people wanted to conceal.

Célebriän knew that very well indeed.

Frodo was jolted awake by a dream far into the night. After the dreadful visions of thick blood and massacre had left his mind, he opened his eyes and looked around. Célebriän was no longer there, but no orc or man had taken her place.

He yawned and tried to go back to sleep. He hoped that Célebriän would come back soon. Even if she couldn't shield him from all the horrors, she could probably at least protect him a little from the orcs and the malicious men. After all, she had promised to do so.

Frodo closed his eyes. He was thinking wistfully of freedom that would never come, when someone jabbed him in the ribs with their foot. Alarmed, he started, causing his mangled right leg to rub painfully against the floor. Wincing, he looked up to see a man towering over him.

"Get up, you filth," growled the man. Frodo could tell by the voice and appearance that this was one of the Southrons.

"I… I can't," Frodo stammered. "Can't stand or… or walk."

"Too lazy, eh?" said the Southron.

"No," said Frodo. "I just can't… my legs are broken…"

The man stood, thinking for a moment, and then laughed.

"Ah," he said. "I forgot that Hyarmur had that done… yes."

A smile crept across his face as he added, "I see I woke you up from your little nap, but don't worry. You'll be wide awake in a few moments. I've got a little surprise ready for you upstairs."

Frodo saw a hand reaching for him, and, overcome by anxiety, he bit down hard on it. He coughed, trying to rid himself of the taste of dirt and oily skin when he was picked up and thrown against the back wall of his prison. There was a yell followed by cursing and the clinking sound of someone searching through a pile of metal. Dazed from hitting his head particularly hard, Frodo barely paid attention to it, until he felt someone grab his wrists and hold him down.

"Very well then," came the voice of the man. "We can have a little preview to the show we've got prepared upstairs if that's what you'd like. We have time…"

Frodo gulped as his mouth was pried open and the man inserted a metal tool of some sort. He couldn't tell exactly what it was, but its shape resembled an old pair of pliers. He felt this device yank on his back molar and cried out. He knew that it was useless to fight, although he tried desperately to get free. By the time the third tooth was ripped out, he was a mess of screaming and tears.

He didn't know how long this would have continued if no one had interfered, but after the fourth extraction, he was dropped. He lay on the ground in a sobbing heap, spitting out bloody saliva, while his torturer stood up and went over to an Uruk-hai, standing in the aisle.

"Oi!' said the Uruk-hai. "What's kept you? You been toying with the Halfling while we've been waiting?"

"Just had business that had to be done, that's all," snapped the man. "I had a little bit of trouble from this one." He shot a glare at Frodo, who flinched, and added, "And if there's more trouble, I'll do worse."

"Well, whatever it is," said the Uruk-hai. "We've got bigger matters to handle."

"I'm still not quite clear on exactly what you need him for," said the man.

"Are you deaf to what goes around here?" shouted the Uruk-hai. "There's been people spotted around the outskirts that shouldn't be here… men of Gondor, I've heard. The Halfling knows something about them. Your master's sure of it."

A sense of joy flickered in Frodo for a moment at the thought of salvation. Maybe the Fellowship had forgiven him, and they had sent people to his aid at last. He would be able to escape this wretched fortress finally. It was an outrageous thought, but everything was lunacy now, and he clung to this wild prospect until a different insanity gripped him.

The feeling of hope fled when he was picked up once again, and lugged into the heavy blackness of the staircase. He soon realized what was about to happen, and this time, there was no act of weakness that could save him from whatever torture the questioning would involve. This time, he had no answer to give, even if he wanted to speak willingly. He recalled his previous interrogation and shuddered, feeling helpless, vulnerable…

"Where are the rest of your kind anyway?" asked the Southron, who was trailing behind. "Didn't see many of them around today."

"Most of them have been sent out to deal with the Gondor scum," said the Uruk-hai carrying Frodo. "I thought you'd know, since half of your little friends went out also."

"I'd assume that's where the Elf went also," said the man.

"Yeah, she's guarding the nearby hills, so she's not that far away, but we're lucky that she's gone for now. I was afraid she'd still be with the Halfling and we'd have to somehow get him from her. She's probably protective already. I heard her fussing over him in the evening. She wouldn't like to see him get all sliced up… but she's not here now; we can do what we have to."

"So that's where she is," thought Frodo. "Oh, Célebriän, please come back before they hurt me further! I can't endure anymore… please…"

Once more, he found himself crying, but the tears were not only due to physical pain. It was the mere contemplation of his fate that made him weep. He _would_ be put through much more. Sauron wanted his prisoner kept alive for reasons other than attracting Mordor's foes and gaining future information.

Frodo vaguely remembered someone telling him that if captured, he would be "tormented". This was Sauron's punishment: The Ring-bearer was to spend the rest of his life in anguish. This was exactly what was going to happen. There would be no freedom, and the days would pass on, unremittingly bringing the same guilt and agony until he died a pathetic wretch.

"Stop your whining," Frodo heard someone yell. A swift blow followed, and he gasped in agony.

They came into a small chamber. Frodo blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light from the burning fires around the room. It made him wonder how long it had been since he'd seen sunlight. Hyarmur was pacing back and forth, murmuring something to himself.

He looked up when Frodo was brought in, and called out, "It took you long enough to fetch the Halfling, especially when we're facing these sort of matters!"

"It's not my fault," growled the other man. "The rat gave me trouble, so I dealt out punishment. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, nothing," said Hyarmur. "But next time we've got something at hand, do it later. You can have him after I'm done here."

He snatched Frodo away from the Uruk-hai and threw him to the ground. Unable to break his fall, the hobbit hit the hard floor, painfully. His injuries throbbed even more.

"I need you to understand a few things," said Hyarmur, calmly as though he was explaining something to a toddler. "If you answer my questions without a fuss, we won't need to use this."

He picked up what appeared to be a long, metal rod, and held it closer so that Frodo could see that the end of it was similar to that of a rake. However, the edges stuck out like curved spikes, sharp as knives. Upon closer inspection, it could be seen that some of these blades were stained with the dried blood of their last victim.

"If you choose to be stubborn like I'm told you were earlier," continued Hyarmur. "Things won't go quite as smoothly. Do you understand me?"

Frodo gave a terrified nod. He stared once again at the horrid device Hyarmur gripped tightly, ready to strike him with it if he was unable to give a satisfactory response. He searched through his mind for possible responses when asked something he could not answer, but found none that could save him from more harm.

"Let's start then," said Hyarmur. "I'm sure you know that a group of Gondor scum is snooping around the borders as we speak. No doubt, they'll be dealt with in a few moments, but surely the former Ring-bearer would know of the affairs of the "White City". Why are men of Minas Tirith here in Mordor?"

"What?" Frodo whimpered, unsure of what else to say.

He knew what would happen as soon as the words left his mouth. The spike-ended rod was raised, and a second later, its razor-edges fell, scraping the bare skin off his back. He screamed and mumbled an indecipherable plea.

"There's no use trying to act clueless," shouted Hyarmur. "It's not like anyone's coming for you, so don't try to stall. Now, tell us what you know of Gondor's plans for battle!"

Frodo was shaking with fright. "No one ever told me anything about it!" he wailed. "Please… I don't –"

He was cut off for the blades were digging into his back again, scratching up and down over and over again. He shrieked and huddled up against the wall. All the while, he could hear Hyarmur yelling at him, distantly.

"He's not talking," said the other Southron. "Move on to something else. Ask him about the White Wizard. I'm sure he's linked to everything somehow, and we're all mighty curious about him."

Hyarmur took the metal rod away and thought. A moment later, he turned back to Frodo and said, "Yes, of course. Who is this 'White Wizard', little Ring-bearer?"

Frodo knew from some dwindling memory what to say this time, but what relevance the answer had to the Dark Lord, he did not know. It seemed like something Sauron would be very much aware of already, but at least there was no harm in "revealing" this.

"Saruman?" said Frodo, confusedly.

To his surprise, he felt the dagger-edges pierce his flesh again, this time on his right side. He let out a shriek. What had he done wrong? He had said what they wanted to know, hadn't he?

"Do you take me for an idiot?" bellowed Hyarmur. "Yes, of course I know who Saruman is… tell me of the other wizard. The one who is said to be in the war fighting alongside the armies of Gondor. Who is he? Are all the rumors true?"

Frodo almost said, "Gandalf!", but he stopped himself. He didn't know exactly where this name came from for its meaning had been worn down along with Frodo's sanity, but somehow it felt like the wrong thing to say. The spikes were rubbing against his chest now. Slowly, little drops of blood were dripping down there also.

"Please," he begged. "I wasn't told of another White Wizard! I have nothing more… nothing more to tell. Please, stop!"

His eyes darted around the room, vainly looking for a possible escape, forgetting that he could no longer walk, much less run. There was only one entrance that led to an open hall. There was someone passing by. His heart leapt the moment he realized who it was.

"Célebriän!" he called out.

She stopped by the doorway, but didn't enter.

"Please, stop them," Frodo cried out to her. "Don't let them… help me!"

The elf took a step forward, hesitated and then paused again. Why wasn't she coming? Hyarmur laughed and bent down next to Frodo.

"Are you waiting for her to save you?" he whispered, mockingly. "Did you think that just because she was oh so kind to you last night, you now have a guardian? Someone who's going to come and save you from all those mean people, eh? Well, I'll do you a favor and break you out of this naïve fantasy. She's under the Dark Lord's orders just like I am. If the Dark Lord doesn't tell her to interfere, she won't. If she's told to do exactly what I'm doing, _she will_."

Frodo had caught eye-contact with Célebriän and was silently pleading her to prove this horrible man wrong. She had promised to protection as long as she was around. If she didn't, it would be betrayal… or perhaps he had just been a fool for trusting her so impulsively. No! This couldn't be the case…

"Célebriän, please," he was begging now. "Remember what you said..."

With every second Célebriän stood there, the feeling that he had been purely misled by her grew heavier.

It seemed like a lifetime before Célebriän decided what to do. Like all elves, if she had been allowed to debate this for another hour, she would have gladly done so. But, she could not wait, nor could she live with herself knowing that she had deceived someone who had already been through so much. As she watched Hyarmur rip through Frodo's skin with that cursed thing again, a rage with an extremity that she had not felt in years seized her.

"Stop this!" she yelled. She was surprised to her herself. She sounded much younger somehow, like a girl telling a group of lads to leave some poor animal alone. This was so different than what she was used to: The silent watcher, passing by like a shadow, never revealing what she contemplated or wished for.

Hyarmur had stopped and came a few steps towards her, surprised by this outburst. Célebriän reached up to her arrow-sheath and fingered the long knife she kept there. It seemed like so long since it had been used in combat… far too long…

"So, you've decided to come and rescue your little friend here?" said Hyarmur. "Strange of you to lose your temper so quickly, Célebriän."

"Never mind that," said Célebriän in a tone of biting rancor. "I said to stop this! You say that the Halfling must be kept alive, then you try to tear him apart!"

"I wouldn't have to if he would only cooperate with me. There wouldn't be any harm done if he wasn't so..."

"Do not think that I am oblivious to your thoughts. You would do the same to him even if he gave you all of Minas Tirith's weaknesses, strategies and whatever else the Dark Lord needs to win the war! Do not deny that you yearn for that sick sense of power you reap from knowing the Halfling is at your mercy, from sensing how afraid he is of you, from hearing him wail as a result of your actions! But now, I tell you… no, I order you to stop!"

There was a long silence after this last declaration. Frodo waited in apprehension for someone to respond. He glanced at the spiked rod lying on the ground, then at Célebriän. She wasn't looking at him anymore, but was glowering at Hyarmur. The man and the Uruk-hai who had brought Frodo were watching their captain, nervously.

"Very well," said Hyarmur, reluctantly. "You're rather worked up today…"

Célebriän strode over to Frodo, who stared up at her, pitifully. She picked him up, trying to aggravate his new wounds as little as possible.

"Come now," she whispered. "Let us leave these foul scoundrels."

As they passed Hyarmur, he grinned and said, "Who would've thought you'd finally use the authority the Dark Lord gave to you all those years ago… all this time you've refused to take advantage of it. You're smarter now, but you know that regardless of how you chose to exercise your power, it comes from the same source as mine… we're very alike that way, aren't we?"

Célebriän ignored him. She left quickly with Frodo and together, they began to make their way back to the dungeons of the Pits. Once they were out of earshot of anyone else, Célebriän spoke just a little louder.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm not sure why I waited… but know that what I told you last night still holds through. My vow will be stronger in the future. If I could free you, I would."

Frodo turned his head so that he was looking straight at her. She looked weary, as if her last act had required a great deal of energy.

"Why can't you?" he asked before he could stop himself.

"I…" Célebriän faltered. Once they reached the cells, she set Frodo down, gently, and began to rub a gel-like substance that she'd gotten from the arrow-sheath on his cuts.

"Frodo," she said. "Sometimes, no matter how skilled you grow with a knife or a bow, no matter how many ages you spend in this world, you still fear to accept a task where failure seems even the slightest bit likely. 'Uncertainty may indeed be the bane of many men and elves and all other races.' I remember someone telling me that long ago. But sometimes there are things we should not risk… that's the way escape at this time would be."

This sounded like a reasonable answer, but somehow, Frodo was not satisfied by it. Something in him refused to accept that things were the way they _had_ to be. Whether she sensed or shared his emotions, Célebriän was looking even more unnerved.

"Try to bear it a little longer, Nandír," she said faintly. She looked down, and, as if she had noticed a great mistake, she said, "I'm sorry, Frodo! I'm slipping back to the past again."

Frodo didn't understand this statement or why she had suddenly called him, "Nandír". He sighed, tired, both from blood-loss and lack of sleep. He was feeling increasingly lightheaded. Célebriän had fallen silent. She continued to tend to Frodo's deep lacerations, but barely acknowledged him otherwise. A short while later, he drifted into unconsciousness and lay still in placid oblivion.

This however, did not last for long, for he soon began to writhe a little in his slumber, drawing in frenzied, shuddering breaths. He struggled against the ropes around his hands, groaning softly in distress and pain. Célebriän watched at him; there was a sense of horrible recurrence about this. At first, she decided that it was best to not intervene, but when Frodo began to twist and turn more violently, she reached out to try to comfort him.

At her touch, Frodo yelped and awoke suddenly. Wide-eyed and shaking with terror, he cowered. Célebriän leaned closer, to show him there was no one to fear, but he hid his face.

"Don't," he said in a quavering voice. "I can't bear it… I can't… stop… stop! Get away…"

Frodo looked up, but did not appear to even notice Célebriän. He was absorbed in a warped mixture of awful memories of what had happened at the Dark Fortress, and he could not escape. He saw faces creeping out of the darkness and felt the shadows brush up against him, wrapping around him like suffocating shawls.

Célebriän was speaking to him gently, trying vainly to bring him back. She knew in her heart that this was useless. Frodo barely heard her now; the few words that reached him were unintelligible murmurs. He had been trapped in madness from the first day he came to Barad-dûr, an occasional "relief" from the bitterness of reality.

"They're gone," Frodo was now talking to himself in a distant, thoughtless voice. "They've abandoned me… that's all there is… they won't come… none will come…"

"That is not certain," whispered Célebriän; although she knew he was not listening, she went on, growing more determined. "You may leave this place someday by another path besides death. I myself cannot succeed in freeing you, but I can attempt to aid you…"

She leaned closer to Frodo and said, "I must leave now to give you that." An idea was growing in her mind.

"Men of Gondor have strayed into the Land of Shadow, so they say," she thought as she left. "Not all of them will be able to flee with their lives, but perhaps some will with assistance… assistance that will be repaid. Salvation for you, Frodo, and redemption for me if fate is in favor of our plan."


	5. Word from Mordor

**Author's Note: Thank you to all of my reviewers once again. I appreciate these respectful reviews very much and they are always welcomed. Let me just say that this chapter was really hard to get started for some reason. That's part of why it took a little longer than some of the other updates. Also, I haven't had much time to write with my summer course. **

**Sadly, not my best chapter. Once again, please don't flame me. I haven't written anything serious with these characters before, so I'm not very experienced with this type of writing. ****This chapter is basically Movie-Verse and a little AU as far as certain things are concerned.**** There will be more of (the very awesome) Legolas later on.**

**Note that the "battle" discussed in this chapter refers to the Siege of Minas Tirith/Battle of Pelennor Fields.**

_Chapter 5_

_Word from Mordor_

A few hours before dawn in Minas Tirith, Pippin Took was shaken awake from a dream. It had been a bizarre and eerie dream, distant as though he was looking into a Palantír. Someone had been screaming, crying out names that he certainly knew, but he couldn't decide whose voice this was.

Then, he had seen a small figure with its back to him, crouching, with a pool of blood gathering around it, but, once again, Pippin had been unable to tell who this was.

There had been a sense of foreboding about the dream, almost as if it was a premonition. It had been quite frightening and the moment Pippin felt someone touch him, he sat up in bed, breathing heavily. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim candle-light and saw Merry bending over him.

"What is it?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

Merry shook his head. "Strider just came," he replied. "He wants us to meet him and the others in the throne room… other than that, I really don't know what's going on."

"He didn't say anything else?" said Pippin, confusedly.

"No," said Merry. "But it sounded like an urgent matter."

Wearily, Pippin rose and followed his cousin out into the hallway. A short while later, Pippin asked, "Do you think they might finally have news?"

Merry sighed. "I'm not sure," he said. "The scouts that went out to the borders near Mordor… it doesn't look as if they're coming back. But if they do, well, what are they going to say? 'We didn't see anything of the Ring-bearer and his companion.' And we'll be lucky if that's all they have to tell. What if…"

His voice trailed off. Both he and Pippin were thinking of the same awful possibility. The one that they and everyone else in the Fellowship dreaded.

"He's alive," said Pippin, trying to sound certain. "Both of them are alive."

However, as the days drew by, his confidence was slowly fading. There were times when he felt like a child insisting that some creature of myths existed, going against all sense, but there was no sign other than the recovery of corpses that could make him accept that Frodo and Sam were dead.

Merry and Pippin reached the door of the throne room and knocked. A solemn looking guard admitted them without a word and they made their way over to the group of people gathered further down the hall. Gandalf was there, as well as Legolas, Gimli, Aragorn and a few other men.

The first peculiar thing that the hobbits noticed was that one of the men looked rather unkempt, as though he had just travelled a long way through great hardship. Neither of the hobbits had seen him before.

They came to notice what was truly unanticipated, however, when one of the men moved aside a little to reveal a short figure, the height of a child, in the middle of the crowd. It did not take Merry and Pippin long to realize who this was, and in an instant, Pippin had rushed forward.

"Sam!" he exclaimed as he flung his arms around the hobbit; Merry hurried over to join them. "I never would have expected to see you here, but it's a great joy indeed!"

"Never expected to come here and see you at this time either," replied Sam. "But I'm glad I'm here."

"Well," said Merry. "It's certainly good to have a pleasant surprise for once in the midst of all this."

"Indeed," said Sam, smiling.

It was then that over the delight of finally seeing his companion again, Merry noticed that Sam's happiness seemed forced, as though a heavy despondency was upon him. The same seemed to apply to the rest of the people around them. They looked on, as though they had something terrible to say, but were trying to decide whether or not it should wait.

In fact, Merry had felt in his heart that there was something terribly wrong the moment he'd seen Sam standing there,_ alone_.

"Sam," asked Merry, hesitantly. "Where is Frodo?"

"Why didn't I ask him this as soon as I saw him?" he wondered. But he knew the reason: he was afraid of what he would hear. He almost didn't want to hear the answer to his question.

All hints of cheerfulness left Sam at that moment. He did not answer, but instead bowed his head as though in grief. Merry and Pippin stared at each other, both with the same worry and apprehension, then at those surrounding them. Aragorn came forward.

"We were just discussing Frodo when you came," he said, as though these words were a burden to utter.

"He's not…" Pippin started to say faintly.

"No," said Aragorn. "Frodo is not dead, but captured, imprisoned by the Enemy."

A heavy silence followed as the dreadful news was absorbed. Pippin's recent dream came back to him in a vivid spark and as the true awfulness of Frodo's fate pierced into his heart and mind, he began to sob.

Merry was wearing a stunned look of horror, trapped for a moment in his own thoughts. He could scarcely imagine what kind of torture Frodo had gone through. How long had it been? A few weeks, probably, or perhaps even longer… and his kin and companions had been oblivious to the fact the whole time! But it had been innocent lack of awareness, not cold and hardhearted by any means. Merry hoped Frodo knew this.

Once he was able to tear his mind from such pondering, he went over to Pippin and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. While the latter continued to weep, Merry turned to Aragorn again and asked, tentatively, "How?"

"You came in just as Iorlas here was telling the full tale," replied Aragorn gesturing to the disheveled man Merry and Pippin had noticed earlier. "Please continue."

"As I have told you, my lord," said the man called Iorlas. "I do not believe that my company and I traveled into the Land of Mordor itself. We were simply keeping watch over the far edges of Gondor, where we were stationed shortly after your coming. We were barely near the slopes of the Epeth Dúath, which is why it came as a true shock when we heard the Enemy's servants draw near. Orcs, coming down from over the mountains, and a few men from the east as well, if I'm not mistaken."

"How many?" asked Aragorn.

"I cannot give you the exact number," said Iorlas. "Twenty or so attacked myself and those with me, but that is not the full count, for the men of Gondor with me were scattered in groups. Yet, twenty or double the amount for every small camp would be a miniscule part of Mordor's armies. For every that we killed two more would come creeping from the hills."

"They've obviously been busy since the last fight," muttered Gimli.

"Indeed," said Iorlas. "The blow of the Enemy's last defeat has made him no weaker. Alas, the same does not pertain to us. Fifty of us there were out on the mountain side that day, but only I and the Halfling, Samwise whom my men came across a few days earlier, lived to come to the White City.

"We had managed to find our way out of the struggle. We would have surely been caught in it again if fate had not been so kind to us. It was then that we came across one whose kind I would never have dreamed of seeing alone, so near Mordor: an elf! She had come so quietly that we barely noticed her until she was barely two yards from us."

At this, Legolas lifted his head slightly in heightened curiosity and an air of astonishment and slight skepticism rose through the assembly, but no one interrupted.

"I drew my sword but made no use of it, for she did not appear to wield a weapon," Iorlas went on. "She made no delay in telling us her errand and although the message was quite cryptic for some part, I remember her words clearly.

"'We do not have much time so I shall only tell you what you truly need know,' she said. 'I am held in the trust of your foes, and the Enemy would have me to kill or capture both of you and any others I find under similar allegiance. Let them believe that I'll do so, but I resist this once, or rather I do what he would desire and add a slight twist as to change the outcome.

"'I offer you now a chance to escape with your lives in the hope that you will, in turn, help to spare another from further suffering. The one I speak of is the Ring-bearer. I'm sure you have heard of him, for he was given the great task of destroying the One Ring… a task that has been hindered by vile events. Ai! The Halfling, Frodo, was caught by a host of orcs, a month ago perhaps, and has been captive in the prisons of the Dark Tower since. I have proof of this; some may recognize this blade.'"

(Iorlas gestured to the small blade on the floor; it was of Elvish making, with fine writing and markings along the blade.)

"'The Ring, however, (or Isildur's Bane as some call it) was not found with him; your hopes of victory linger. Give word to Minas Tirith of this, for the task cannot be achieved by another bearer. It has been foreseen; aid must be sent to him, for I alone cannot save him. Tell Gondor to send a sign when they are prepared to send someone to fulfill this duty.'

"She told us of a path our foes had not yet reached. We made haste towards it. That was the last we saw of the elf."

With a long sigh, Iorlas drew his tale to a close and the others deliberated what they'd just heard. There were many questions, but it was unlikely that either of the witnesses had the answers, and all inquisitions seemed to lead to further enquires.

"Did the elf give you her name?" asked Legolas. The matter was of course of immense interest to him.

"Yes," replied Iorlas. "Although I cannot remember it exactly… it was a rather long Elvish name."

"You have a strong mind for remembering the words of others, but not for names I suppose," said Gimli.

"Well…" said Iorlas.

"Begging your pardon, sir," interjected Sam, who was finally pulling himself together a little. "But I recall her name. It was Célebriän of Nargothrond."

"Célebriän?" said Legolas. "Are you sure?"

"Samwise is right," said Iorlas. "That was what she told us."

"Is there something wrong?" asked Aragorn, noticing that the elf was quite unnerved by this news.

"This is a strange fate," said Legolas. "For I knew Célebriän long ago, in the forests of Mirkwood. She and a few others travelled south once, and I heard nothing of their Company after they left. I had guessed that they had fallen victim to the growing shadow… but this elf Iorlas speaks of seems to match the companion I remember. She did bear the gift of foresight, although she did not have the ability to wield it completely; she got her brief glimpses from others of higher power."

"It appears that your assumption was correct," said Gandalf, who had been silently listening to the conversation, pondering the circumstances. "But the events that followed were most unusual, and the outcome even more so."

"An elf in the service of the Enemy," Aragorn said thoughtfully. "It seems that we may have gained an ally and a spy without even speaking to them!"

"Greater reason to question their true allegiance," said Gimli. "What proof do we have that she seeks to 'add a twist to change the outcome' of the Enemy's plan? It is more than likely that she is merely doing exactly what he wishes: arranging for us to send our forces on a rescue mission to Mordor, so that he can crush us all at once. A servant of the Enemy does not choose to defy him on a whim. It seems to me that we have more reason to doubt this Célebriän than to trust her."

"And there may very well be strong reasons to believe her," said Gandalf. "But, a few more questions must be answered. I pose the first inquiry to Samwise and Iorlas: Did Célebriän specifically speak of Frodo's condition or what has happened to him at all?"

"She did," said Iorlas. "She emphasized that he has gone through much torment at the hands of the Enemy's servants since his capture. She said that he is starving and both his legs are broken. He apparently has various other injuries… it sounds as though he is half dead already. I found it unusual that she mentioned the details when we were so pressed for time, especially details that would dissuade some from bothering to rescue this Halfling."

"She did sound quite concerned to me if that means anything," said Sam. "She sounded mighty earnest also. I don't reckon a servant of the Enemy would speak that way. I remember Mr. Frodo saying that he imagined a servant of the Enemy would sound sweet, but feel foul. That's not what I felt from Célebriän if I'm any judge of character."

"But are we to judge simply on our rough impression of her?" Gimli asked. "I do not mean to be unjustly dubious. I only wish to avoid walking into a trap."

"And that is not unjust by any means, Master Dwarf," said Gandalf. "Iorlas and Samwise had a brief encounter with Célebriän, but it seems that there is one here who may better know her true manner of speech and demeanor. What say you, Legolas?"

Legolas had been silently debating the matter. It was very hard to draw any final decision as this was quite a paradox to him.

"Célebriän was honorable when I knew her," he said. "And I do believe that I know her well enough to tell her intentions. Although the circumstances could not be more different, she sounds quite as earnest as I remember her. I remember her behavior when she had a secret to conceal, and it does not match the most recent report. If only I knew how changed she is now. Then, perhaps, I could make more certain judgment."

"Longer contemplation will not get us any further on this subject, which is only a part of the larger dilemma" said Aragorn. "What shall we do about Frodo?"

"I have felt for a while an inkling that he was alive, but something had gone amiss," said Gandalf.

"We've all seen the token Célebriän gave," said Aragorn. "I do not think we need to deliberate whether he is imprisoned or not. This piece fits perfectly with what we know. We must now choose our next move in this war."

"We cannot run blindly into Mordor to save him," Gandalf said. "Not with the Eye and the great armies."

"We would need a diversion," said Aragon. "Maybe one that attacks from two points. Meanwhile, a small group could sneak in, unseen… but we do not have strength of arms to carry out this plan so soon after battle. It will take time... it seems we have no choice but to wait."

"Wait?!" said Merry. The assembly turned to him in surprise; the hobbit had remained quiet for most of the discussion.

"So, we are to do nothing?" he exclaimed.

"No," said Aragorn; this decision pained him also, but it was what had to be done. "We just have to plan more and wait until the proper time comes, and that time is not now, but I promise that we will try to help Frodo as soon as we can."

"But he'll be dead by then!" Merry was nearly shouting now.

"They won't kill him," said Legolas, slowly. "I have heard of the ways of the Enemy; He will not be merciful enough to kill Frodo. The Enemy wants to punish the Ring-bearer. He does not plan for Frodo to die until… until it's all over, and that won't be for a while."

"How long?" asked Merry.

The elf hesitated for the answer was yet another grim prospect. He'd heard of the Dark Power's torture lasting for a year or more. Sighing, he looked at Gandalf, who nodded.

"I think it may be better if you and Master Peregrin went to get some more rest," said the wizard. "This meeting is not likely to end soon, and I'm sure that Iorlas and Master Samwise are exhausted."

"He'll just suffer more then," said Pippin suddenly, almost as though he was talking to himself. "I heard him screaming for us."

"Pippin," said Merry. "What do you mean?"

"I…I thought it was just a silly dream," Pippin stammered; the most frightening details of the dream were becoming clearer. "A meaningless nightmare, but… but I saw Frodo. I know it was him now. I couldn't see the face… I couldn't really make out the voice at first, but he was crying… someone had hurt him and he was calling for Strider and Gandalf and Sam… and the rest of us, also."

"It wasn't re-" Merry stopped himself before he finished the word. He couldn't dismiss Pippin's story as a mere fantasy when something all too similar could be happening as they spoke.

"Let's go, Pip," he said, quietly. "Try to get a bit more sleep."

"It doesn't feel right," muttered Pippin, as his cousin tried to usher him out of the hall. "Just leaving him…"

"It doesn't feel quite right to me either," said Merry. "But there doesn't seem to be any truly 'right' choice."


End file.
